


What Doesn't Kill You...

by Cydersyrup



Series: Mad Intelligence [9]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Assassination Attempt(s), Assassins & Hitmen, Attempt at Humor, Blood and Violence, But they're doing their best, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Family Dynamics, Hunt or be Hunted, It's not as dark as it sounds, Light Angst, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mild Gore, Past Character Death, Sexual Content, ft. jaemin's bionic knife leg, the kids are unhinged, the lab brats go apeshit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:22:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29856657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cydersyrup/pseuds/Cydersyrup
Summary: ...isn't finished yet.
Relationships: Kim Dongyoung | Doyoung/Nakamoto Yuta, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Mad Intelligence [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1715650
Comments: 58
Kudos: 90





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to installment #9 of my agent AU!  
> I swear, I choose the worst possible times to have decent ideas but the ball has been tossed and we're hitting the ground running yeeeee~  
> Head's up, there's quite a bit of blood, gore, and violence with this one. Pls read at your own discretion. YOU'VE BEEN WARNED.

It starts with Mark almost getting killed. 

Again.

But he's perfectly safe, because the kid has some god-sent luck on his side, and a very protective and skilled friend group to boot. Especially the one with a black belt in taekwondo and a leg that can cut through steel.

The attacker enters the agency in pieces, but still alive. Jaemin’s right pant leg is cut clean in half towards the bottom end and he’s holding what’s left of his shoe in one hand. His sleek metal foot taps impatiently against the carpeting as Sungchan hauls the attacker’s torso over his shoulder in a black trash bag. Shotaro follows shortly, smiling and waving an arm that certainly isn’t his. Chenle’s right behind him, waddling a bit through his wet pants. Mark walks in last, clothes mussed and covered in dirt and grime.

They’re all spattered with blood. The man in the bag is so beat-up that his face is nothing but a medley of blacks and purples, with the occasional bloody slit, and he’s missing two of his front teeth. The bottom of the bag looks strangely distended, like it’s filled with water instead of broken limbs.

“It’s nine o’clock,” Doyoung deadpans, taking a long sip from his mug.

“It’s never too early for me to almost die,” Mark says, brushing off his soiled shirt. “Excuse me, Agent Kim, but we just butchered a man who tried to murder me, so I’m gonna go take a shower and change.”

“Would you like your medicine?”

“No thanks, I took it before I got here.”

That makes sense. Mark wouldn’t be so subdued and focused otherwise, especially if an attempt was just made on his life. In all his years as an assassin, Doyoung has seen men tortured fourteen ways to Hell who are calmer than Mark is after he dodges a bullet (figuratively and literally). His movements are relaxed, bordering on sluggish, and he’s slouching, which is typically a very un-Mark-like behavior. Doyoung watches him walk completely out of sight, before turning his attention to the other juniors. 

“So, does anyone want to explain?”

“No, Agent Kim.” Chenle smiles prettily, flexing his gloved fingers. The material is black and secured to his wrists with velcro straps. There’s rubber pads on the fingers, for better grip. Doyoung’s eyes dart to Chenle’s pockets, and isn’t surprised when he sees the handle of a retractable blade in one of them. There might be blood still on the blade, but it doesn’t show, because like his gloves, Chenle’s coat is black. Blood will only show when they wash through the cloth with water.

“Have you all eaten?”

“That’s how we ended up like this, sir. I didn’t even get to take my waffles to go.”

“To go?”

“It happened in the back alley behind this diner we went to for breakfast,” Jaemin explains, waving his tattered shoe to accentuate his words. “This dude—” he jerks a thumb at their captive, “—tried slipping cyanide into Mark-hyung’s orange juice.”

Chenle huffs. “He’s lucky I tried to steal a sip of that.”

Doyoung frowns. “You tasted the poisoned drink?”

“Smelled it. I have a good nose for poisons,” Chenle chirps proudly. “It’s just sad I panicked and decided to spill the juice altogether, like a dumbass.”

“Directly onto your crotch,” Sungchan supplies helpfully.

Chenle shoots the taller a nasty look. “Would you prefer I spill it onto _yours_?”

“Personally, I wouldn’t prefer you spill the juice at all,” Sungchan says calmly. “You could’ve just told Mark-hyung it’s poisoned and saved us five minutes on beating this guy half to death.”

Doyoung decides not to comment on that as Chenle continues to grumble under his breath. “There’s clean clothes and showers on the fourth floor,” he says, nodding towards the elevator. “And uh, let’s get our guest to Jeno before he becomes a wasted resource. Shotaro, take a scan of his face and call Director Moon and request an identification and background check. Jaemin, inform the chief of this incident.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sungchan, call Director Seo and let him know about this and Mark’s condition. But make sure you tell him that Mark’s unharmed and calm. He doesn’t need to fly in just yet.”

Sungchan nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Chenle, go change your pants.”

“ _Okay_ ,” Chenle drawls.

Doyoung makes a shooing motion with his free hand. “Good. Get to it. I’ll see you all in the main conference room in about two hours for a debrief on this...whatever it is.”

* * *

“Hey, handsome.”

Doyoung doesn’t glance up from his computer screen as Yuta leans into his cubicle and takes his hand. “Good morning, Yuta.”

Yuta kisses Doyoung’s hand and sets a fresh mug of coffee down on his desk. “So, a little birdie told me we’re having some fun today.”

“Someone tried to kill Mark.”

“Hm. Isn’t someone always trying to kill Mark?”

“That’s cruel of you to say.”

“I’m just stating facts.”

He still hasn’t let go of Doyoung’s hand, and it’s getting progressively difficult to type a formal incident report with only one hand. The words are appearing so slowly it’s making Doyoung uncomfortable. A smash-his keyboard-to-pieces-with-extreme-prejudice kind of uncomfortable.

“I had the juniors take the perpetrator to the infirmary. Taeyong’s up there interrogating him now.”

“I heard the poor bastard was brought here in pieces.” Yuta throws his head back and laughs. “God. We raised them well, didn’t we? Those little monsters.”

“You’re not in the least bit concerned about how violent they’re becoming?”

Yuta snorts. “Hey, look who you’re talking to. Do you really think I’d have stayed married to you this long if I actually had enough morality to give a shit about that?”

Doyoung smiles, bringing his hands up to carefully fix Yuta’s collar. “I suppose not. So, what did you really come to see me for?”

“A man can’t just deliver his husband some coffee because he wants to see him?” Yuta says, bringing a hand to his chest. “I’m offended.”

“Yes, thank you for the coffee. Now, what happened?”

Yuta sighs, defeated. “Taeyong told me to call you to the infirmary.”

“Why?”

“Well, Mr. Mark-hater isn’t exactly cooperating.”

Doyoung’s gaze darkens to something dangerous. “Did he hurt Jeno?”

“Uh, no, the kid’s fine, but sausage-face wouldn’t talk as Jeno stopped the bleeding, and spat at Taeyong when he tried to interrogate him.”

“Did Taeil get back with the identification?”

Yuta nods. “A Mr. Yi. No formal name. Associated with Tartarus from the Underworld. Age 28.”

Doyoung feels tingles under his skin. “A hitman from the Underworld.”

“More or less.”

“What does he want with Mark?”

“We don’t know. He lunged at me when I asked him that question, though that could be in part of how I insulted his mother.”

Doyoung shoots up in his chair, feeling a cold fury rising inside his veins. “The disrespect,” he seethes.

Yuta shrugs loosely, unbothered. “To be fair, I did call his mother a whore-ass bitch who didn’t bother teaching her spineless son any goddamn manners.”

“Get me the techs and tell them to meet me in the infirmary.”

“Eh?”

“You heard me.”

Yuta blinks. “I did, but how’s that supposed to help—”

“If he doesn’t want to talk nicely, we can always squeeze something out of him, the old-fashioned way,” Doyoung says, turning to his husband with a very sweet, very deliberate smile. “You understand me, don’t you, Yuta?”

“Always, handsome,” Yuta replies with a sly grin and a salute, before bounding off to find the two little sadists.

* * *

It’s a wonder their captive still has the strength to be an asshole, despite being dismembered and beaten within a millimeter of his life. He scowls at Doyoung when he walks within view, and it’s about the second ugliest face Doyoung has seen in his career. Which is actually saying a lot, considering he’s seen bodies after a week of decomposition before. This guy’s bloated mug could give those cold corpses a good run for their money.

Taeyong is standing off the side of the bed with Jeno, face stoic and posture carefully relaxed. Jeno looks nervous, standing a little huddled behind Taeyong and fiddling nervously with a clipboard.

“Still won’t talk?” Doyoung mouths when Taeyong meets his eyes.

“No,” Taeyong mouths back. “Tried being nice. Didn’t work. Had Nakamoto threaten him. Didn’t work either.”

"So you called me.”

“Precisely.”

“Well, I called the techs.”

Taeyong clicks his tongue. “Crazy bastard.”

“Me or him?”

Taeyong doesn’t say anything else.

Doyoung turns to the man in the bed. “You’re Mr. Yi, aren’t you?” He thinks the man’s eyes widen slightly, or would’ve, if the flesh surrounding them aren’t so swollen and discolored. “No need to speak, if you don’t want to. But yes, we know who you are.”

He gets a dirty glare in return, but Doyoung’s smart enough to be standing a good distance away, and he always keeps enough weapons on him to take down men twice his size. 

“I heard you’ve caused a good amount of trouble to our juniors and my superior over here.” Doyoung nods towards Taeyong, who’s glaring holes into Yi’s bloody head. “But mind you, that’s not what I’m here for.” He stares straight into the hitman’s eyes. “What vendetta do you have against us?”

A bloody glob of spit spatters the ground before Doyoung’s shoes. They're the nice suede ones that Yuta bought him for his birthday, too. “Go to hell.”

Taeyong snorts. “That’s the most he’s said in the last hour.”

“That so?” Doyoung straightens his posture and glances at Jeno. “Dr. Lee, let the techs in and give us some space.”

Jeno bows slightly and scampers away without a word. Doyoung hears the door to the infirmary open, and turns his attention back to his target.

“Are you sure you don’t want to tell us why you tried to kill one of our boys?” Taeyong asks, keeping his voice carefully neutral. “If you confess, you can still live. I can’t guarantee you anything else if you decide otherwise.”

“And even if you _do_ die,” Doyoung adds, “we can at least make sure it’s quick and painless.”

“Fuckers, the lot of you,” Yi snaps.

“Hey now, that’s not a nice thing to say.” 

Doyoung turns to the familiar voice and the sound of heavy boots thudding down the otherwise quiet room. Chenle steps into view, dressed in new khaki pants and his heavy-duty lab coat. His hands are still gloved and his goggles rest askew atop his messy hair. Jaemin follows a step behind, still in his cut pants and with only one shoe on. His prosthetic foot hits the floor soundlessly, and Doyoung can see the silvery plates and gears shift with every step, every movement he makes.

“Hey, sirs!” Chenle greets with a salute and a smile flashing too much teeth. “What can we do you for?”

Jaemin cocks his head at Yi, expression bored and contemptuous. “Well, well, if it isn’t the jackass who tried to murder our poor, stressed hyung.” He shifts his weight onto his biological leg, and the plates making up his bionic foot visibly shifts and rearranges themselves, exposing the tip of a pointed blade. “I see you’re alive enough to still be a dick.”

“Jaem, chill, we didn’t even receive any orders yet.” Chenle’s gaze narrows into a satisfied leer, like a cat with its paw firmly on a mouse’s tail. “So, how can we help you, sirs?”

“Mr. Yi here has been very uncooperative with our investigation,” Taeyong says. “Not to mention, highly disrespectful.”

Doyoung points at the floor. “Watch out for the bloody spit.”

The technicians both look down, then back up. Chenle’s face still hasn’t lost its predatory smile. Jaemin straightens his leg forward and unsheathes the full length of the blade within, a full half-meter of razor-sharp, thrumming-red titanium.

“So, what are our orders?”

Taeyong smiles, and it's a cruel, beautiful expression. “Isn’t that obvious? He’s proven himself a waste of space. Get rid of him.”

“Yes, sir,” Chenle and Jaemin chorus with glee. Doyoung reaches out to pull the curtains around the bed closed as the two technicians advance towards the incapacitated man, and the last thing he sees before the screaming starts is fear—pure, naked, unadulterated fear. 

It's the fear of a man who knows that his life will end in the worst possible way.

“Have fun, boys,” Doyoung calls, and then he shuts the curtains.

* * *

Jaemin doesn’t actually kill the man. Of course he doesn’t. There’s nothing to gain from a dead man other than organs to harvest and sell (or donate, if you're a saint). Doyoung’s actually impressed by how the kid manages to cut, stab, and gouge into Yi without causing bleeding bad enough to finally put the bastard out of his misery. What he does manage to do, however, is cut Yi into even smaller pieces.

“He’s still breathing,” Chenle reports when he pulls back the curtain. His lab coat is spattered with blood and so are his goggles. “I think we’ll have to try harder, sir.”

Doyoung shrugs. “Well, you heard the chief.”

So naturally, Chenle takes Yi down to the lab—bloody sheets and all—and places his pieces in a mason jar the size of a wine barrel. Then he pulls on a respirator, pops the lid to several huge jugs of what’s possibly the most foul-smelling chemicals Doyoung has ever had the displeasure of encountering, and completely drowns the man in formaldehyde. 

Doyoung has drowned a fair amount of people in his career, but never in toxic chemicals before. It’s almost mesmerizing how much more effective this method is, compared to plain water.

“You never know when you need a human tissue sample,” Chenle says when Doyoung questions him about keeping the body. “It’s one of the biggest principles of science. Waste not, want not.”

Doyoung takes one look at the corpse in blue-tinted liquid, and decides to not ask him any more questions. Something tells him that’s not going to be the only body they’ll have to dispose of in the near future.

But first, they'll have to know exactly who they're up against. Doyoung has always been a staunch believer in killing with minimal effort and maximum preparation, whether it's his life at risk or not. A body count of one is hardly impressive by his standards, especially if it takes a group of people to achieve it.

The kids did their best given the circumstances, he knows that.

But none of them actually kill for a living.


	2. Chapter 2

Taeil’s got a gun.

That’s not even the most surprising thing. Taeil’s past history is legend within NCT, and nobody has even come close to him in terms of long-range kills in this generation. Even Renjun has to admit defeat to the director, and the kid has the highest body count to ever been recorded in the agency’s history.

Nobody’s sitting within a three-meter radius of the IT director in the conference room, and Doyoung has a nagging suspicion it’s actually more because of the way Taeil’s scowling rather than the rifle resting on the table before him. Even Taeyong’s sitting a little distance away, fingers laced together and looking grim. Across the table, a hologram of Johnny shifts and flickers slightly, looking skittish despite the fact that out of everybody in the room, he’s the _least_ likely to die.

“Sit,” Taeyong says when Doyoung enters the room. Most of the chairs are filled already, by agents and technicians alike. Even Jeno’s there, legs tucked under him and toying with the diaphragm of the stethoscope around his neck. Next to him, Jaemin lounges back in his chair, tilting it as far back as it could go. His legs are propped on the conference table without a care, his bare metallic foot rotating lazily in its socket, and his black Vans fanning off flakes of dried blood across the tabletop. Across from them sits Kun, with Sicheng and Yukhei flanking his sides. Doyoung wonders just how fast Kun flew over to listen to the news firsthand.

Yuta beckons him over to an open chair, and Doyoung sits. Waits. Taeyong’s expression had been blank when he entered the room, and it’s blank now, save for a slight furrow in his brows, the only indication that something is weighing on his mind.

“What do we know?” Johnny’s hologram says, voice coming through a little distorted in the otherwise quiet room. “This has gotta be the twentieth time someone actively went out of their way to try and kill my baby. I want answers.”

“You’ll get them, Johnny,” Taeyong says. “Once we find out who sent a Hound after him.”

Doyoung perks up at the title. He’s heard of that before—somewhere, from someone. Maybe Yuta, maybe his mother, maybe even Taeyong himself. No clear memories of the context comes to mind.

“Hounds?” Johnny echoes. “Elaborate, please.”

“Spies and agents from a branch of the Underworld known as Tartaurus, a deep black hole infamous for its work in assassination, human trafficking, and counterintelligence,” Taeyong explains, pressing a button on the desk. A circle of lights in the ceiling flicker, before flashing beams that cross and reflect off each other until a viable hologram comes to form. Doyoung stares at the spinning green globe in muted wonder as Taeyong pulls out a tablet and starts swiping through, adjusting and resizing the globe until it shows Seoul from a bird’s-eye view.

“Nasty, nasty organization,” Kun adds, a hint of spite lacing his words. “We had a bad enough brush with them back during Black on Black.”

The entire room winces. Mark, who’d been sitting quietly next to Jeno, curls in on himself in his chair. Taeyong bristles. Renjun sucks in his lower lip between his teeth and holds it there until the flesh turns white. Doyoung doesn’t even realize how hard he’d curled his hand into a fist until Yuta’s hand reaches over to gently massage his fingers open again.

“Anti-NCT is pretty much what they are,” Taeil spits over his glass of whiskey. He sounds uncharacteristically upset, even though his voice is steady and firm. “If they could find Mark, it’s best to assume that the rest of us are also within striking range for them too.”

“What’s their deal?” Mark grumbles, pulling his legs up on the chair and resting his chin on his knees. His eyes are so dark no light could be seen in them. “I’m starting to get real tired of almost dying. The next guy to jump me will get disemboweled right there on the street. I don’t care.”

“Our agency and Tartaurus had bad blood since before the majority of us were even born,” Taeil says. “It’s nothing personal against any of you.”

Doyoung counts back on his fingers. “So, they’ve been around since SUJU and EXO?”

“Before SUJU, and definitely before EXO,” Taeyong confirms with a grim nod. “Our seniors and predecessors had their share of hardship from them. They’ve lost more than enough good agents. Even now, with the majority of them retired, they’re still not safe.”

“That’s almost thirty years since.”

“Once you dip your hands into the black waters of the Underworld, the stain will linger and haunt you for the rest of your life,” Taeil says gravely. “It doesn’t matter how many times we reinvent the agency or relocate, nobody in this line of work is completely clean. We can’t run from our past forever.” His eyes shift to Yuta and Yukhei across the long table. “You should know, Agent Nakamoto and Agent Wong.”

Yukhei frowns, arms crossing over his chest defensively. Yuta looks down at his hands, chewing on his lower lip. Doyoung has never seen him so unnerved before.

“Sir, my past history was with Asphodel. Theft, drugs, gambling, money—that I can give you the nooks and crannies of. But even with my status back then, there are always other apex predators.” Something in Yuta’s gaze shifts. Doyoung’s seen that expression a couple times before—most often in the night, when he thinks Doyoung isn't looking. “I can’t say I know the workings of Tartaurus. There’s too much blood spilt on that, and well, frankly speaking I value my life too much to even go anywhere near it.”

“Yes.” Taeil leans back in his chair and sighs. “It’s filthy. And I will confess, there is hypocrisy in our organization.”

Doyoung frowns. “What do you mean, sir?”

“What better way to fight the enemy, than to essentially become them?” Taeil touches his eyepatch and sighs. “In the grand scheme of things, we’re not that different. They hunt, we hunt. They steal, we steal. They kill, we kill.”

A touch of unease creeps up in Doyoung, like poison seeping from his bones. What Taeil says is essentially correct, down to the letter. Doyoung has gotten his hands dirty for well over a decade already, but the truth behind it all is still such a hard, bitter pill to swallow. NCT’s agenda is to help maintain peace and order in the world, but to do so, they often rely on underhanded means, and more often than not engage in the Underworld itself just to bring parts of it crumbling down. 

One look around the room is telling enough.

“Our predecessors did what they could in their time, but that didn’t stop Tartarus from growing and finding them,” Taeil says. “They know we’re a threat. And especially now, when our own assassination division is well-established.” He runs his fingers down the gun before him. “I know we’ve all laughed in the face of danger before, but this time is different. What happened to Agent Lee is just the beginning. Small-fry. The Underworld will begin sending more people after us. We need to keep our guard up.”

There’s a sharp clank as Jaemin suddenly drops his prosthetic foot down on the table, and everyone turns to him. A glint of anger shines in his eyes, barely hidden by the raven fringe falling into his face. His fingers dig into the thick material of his jacket, corroded and worn down from many unfortunate lab encounters.

“And what, let them play hide-and-seek?” Jaemin hisses sharply, tapping his heel against the table. “Director Moon, you know what happened today. Someone tried to kill Mark-hyung right in front of us, and you’re content to just make us all wait it out?”

“Jaemin!” Doyoung snaps, rising from his seat. “Don’t be disrespectful. Apologize to Director Moon.”

“Sit, Agent Kim,” Taeil says, waving a hand. “I’m not offended. He doesn’t need to apologize.”

“But sir—”

“Sit. Let me speak.”

Doyoung sits, meeting Yuta’s concerned gaze only momentarily before he turns his eyes away. Jaemin’s still silently fuming, picking at the material of his jacket while Jeno gently rubs his arm. Mark watches him curiously through half-lidded eyes, cheek pressed flush against his bent knees.

“It’s not that I don’t want us to fight back. It’s just that I cannot make a decision that could potentially endanger all our lives until we have a clear target.” Taeil sighs, resting his forehead against his fist. “We need to know who exactly sent the Hound after Mark in the first place. Once we obtain that information, we can make our move.”

Johnny flickers. “You can’t track them, hyung?”

“I can’t. Yi wouldn’t tell us anything, and now he’s dead.”

“What killed him?”

Chenle and Jaemin raise their hands. “We did.”

“And we helped,” Sungchan and Shotaro pipe in.

“Good job, guys. Was it brutal?”

“Ever watched the SAW franchise, Director Seo?” Jaemin asks.

“Yeah.”

“Bastard would’ve wished he was stuck in one of those death traps instead.”

Johnny hums appreciatively. “Nice work, but that’s still just one man down. This is gonna be a tough case to crack, and meanwhile, we’re all sat here like dumb bunnies while the Underworld sends their dogs after us.”

“I hate to say this,” Taeyong says, “but we’re going to have to resort to some more unconventional methods, especially if hyung can’t get anything on Yi right away. Johnny, can your people do some digging on Tartarus?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Kun, see if any of your informants have anything that could give us an in on who might be next.”

Kun nods, before leaning to Sicheng and whispering something in his ear. Sicheng doesn’t give a reply back, but immediately pulls out his phone and taps in a quick message. His face is stoic when he looks up again, giving nothing away. Typical.

“And for everyone else, be extra careful when traveling. We don’t know who’s watching us. Stick to large crowds and don’t look anxious. Carry a weapon with you at all times. Even if we don’t know who may be from Tartarus, we can at least make their jobs a hell of a lot harder.”

“Yes, sir,” the room answers.

Taeyong shifts his eyes to the younger agents and technicians. “This should be obvious, but if you all see anything suspicious or feel yourself to be in danger, don’t hesitate to defend yourself.”

A spark ignites in Chenle and Jaemin’s eyes. “At what cost, sir?”

“Any.”

Jaemin turns to Chenle and grins. “I’ll call in the missiles.”

“You do that. Gimme 24 hours, and I can probably get my hands on some sarin.”

Taeyong and Taeil both sigh. The elder of the two runs a hand down his face.

“Agency-approved murder. Oh man, I can’t wait for someone to try and assassinate me,” Jaemin says, rubbing a hand down his prosthetic. “I can finally put my babies to good use. And you, sir—” he pokes Jeno right in his pouting lips, “—can’t do a damn thing to stop me, even if you’re cute.”

Jeno swats Jaemin’s hand away and turns to Taeyong. “Sir, request for a month’s supply of sterile surgical equipment, STAT.”

“Approved.”

“How exciting,” Kun says mildly as the technicians begin discussing extravagant ways to exterminate an entire population. “I don’t think we’ve had anything so noteworthy since The Madam’s time.”

Doyoung freezes.

“The Madam?” Sungchan asks, frowning a little. “Who is that?”

Taeil glances around the room and Doyoung feels the director’s gaze land on him, heavy and melancholy.

Doyoung looks back. It’s okay, he tries to convey. This doesn’t bother him, not anymore. It’s been a long time. He’s an adult now. He can take it.

“The Madam?” Taeyong says. “Well, she was—”

“Agent Kim Taeyeon,” Doyoung cuts in, eyes flickering down to his hands, clenched tightly and white-knuckled. Taeyong startles, but Doyoung doesn’t give him a chance to talk. “Assassin, went by the moniker ‘The Madam’ in the field. Killed in action during Operation Genie, sixteen years ago, at the Galaxia Grand Casino.” His hands are turning numb. Yuta is saying something to him, but Doyoung can’t hear it. “Sound familiar?”

The entire room drops silent. Kun bites his lips, shame flickering over his face for the briefest moment, before he schools his features back into a neutral calm. Taeyong grits his teeth and screws shut his eyes, like he suddenly regrets ever elaborating on the identity of The Madam. Doyoung doesn’t blame them. It’s already been so long—so long since anyone’s ever seen The Madam. 

And much too long since anyone even has the time to remember her and consider the past, what with the hell the present is raising.

“She was a member of one of NCT’s predecessors, SNSD,” Taeil continues listlessly. “She pioneered what would eventually become NCT’s assassination division. During her time, however, she had her own encounter with the Hounds.”

“It was hell on earth,” Kun adds. “After the agency lost her, everyone was so on edge. We all slept in shifts with knives under our pillows.” He turns to Taeil, and there's something deeply troubled in his expression. “Do you think we’ll suffer the same fate as our seniors, Director Moon?”

Taeil sighs, pulling his gun into his lap. “I’ll be damned if any one of you leaves this world before me. Maybe we got lucky for now, but not everyone here is like Mark, and I can guarantee you, when the time comes, we’ll all wish we can switch careers. Which would be unfortunate, considering I’ll have to kill you, then.”

It's not an empty threat, and they all know it. Shotaro and Sungchan gulp and huddle closer together at their end of the table. Mark rolls his eyes, then shuts them altogether. Yuta grabs Doyoung’s hands, and it takes much longer for him to ease the tense muscles open this time.

“And you know this already, but I’m terribly fond of each and every one of you,” Taeil says, stroking the gun delicately. “So what we need here, gentlemen, is a plan.”


	3. Chapter 3

There’s something weighing on Yuta’s mind. Doyoung sees it in his silence the entire way home, the practiced way in which he takes off his coat and hangs it up, and the thin line of his lips when he presses them together.

It could be because they just found out there’s people out there hunting them down, one by one. It could also be because of the plan of counterattack, which could either be the most successful collaborative achievement to date, or raise a complete shitshow like Black on Black. 

Maybe even worse, now that they are also targets in this twisted game.

The directors have pulled all stops in preparing for a counterattack. Johnny is sending over top-secret weapons from the North American labs, and Kun is digging under the back gates of the Underworld without so much as a whisper directed at anyone else.

Some days, Doyoung wishes that his life could be different. That he and Yuta could have mundane jobs, being a teacher or doctor or something like that, meet maybe in a coffee shop or library or some other cliche romantic setting, and gotten to know each other gradually. Maybe they could’ve fallen in love eventually, and build a life with as many children as Yuta wants.

No worries. 

No excessive preparations. 

No fear of never waking up the next morning or having funeral plans signed into an employment contract.

Maybe Yuta’s thinking the same. Doyoung watches him stride into their bedroom wordlessly, and begin undressing with a stiffness that makes his own joints ache. 

“Yuta,” Doyoung says when he can’t stand it anymore, “if something’s bothering you, say it. Maybe there’s something I can do to help you.”

Yuta pauses from where he’s undoing his belt, and gives up altogether, leaving the accessory half-undone as he flops to the ground and crosses his legs. Doyoung doesn’t bring up how they have a perfectly good plush bench just at the foot of the bed.

“The meeting we were at,” Yuta begins, voice low and careful, “something happened to you back there. Something you’re not telling me.”

Doyoung pulls off his own belt and sets it neatly in his nightstand drawer. The whip coils snugly amidst the velvet lining, pressing firm against one of Doyoung’s many guns. “You mean The Madam?”

“You knew her very well,” Yuta says. “And don’t take this the wrong way, but I saw the way you reacted. It was very...not you.”

“It caught me a bit off-guard, I won’t lie.”

Yuta smiles, soft and sympathetic. “She was close to you, wasn’t she?”

Doyoung slides the drawer shut and counts his guns. There’s one in the nightstand. Another under the bed frame on his side. One behind the medicine cabinet. Four in the closets. Three in the drawers. Two behind the tank of the toilet. 

_ ‘Always be the best at preparing for the worst.’ _

“She was.”

Something like understanding flashes over Yuta’s face, before it’s replaced by uncertainty. He’s making that face again, with his lips pulled taut and eyes shifting ever so slightly, like he’s trying to find the nearest escape.

Doyoung knows what’s bothering Yuta now. “You can ask me things, Yuta. I won’t get angry.” 

Yuta doesn’t look sure. “It might be too sensitive.”

“Unless you’re gonna ask me for a sexual favor while we’re at work, I can guarantee you, nothing is ever too sensitive.”

“This might be a close runner-up, then.”

Doyoung adds up the number of guns in his head and double-checks it, because math isn’t exactly his strongest suit. “Yuta, just ask. If I don’t like the question, you’ll know.”

“Well...okay, then.” Yuta sighs, deflating a little. “The Madam—Kim Taeyeon—she was your mother, wasn’t she, Doyoung?” 

Doyoung lost count. He starts over again.

“Doyoung?”

“She was.” Twelve guns, fully loaded. There’s spare magazines in the drawers and closet, too.

“I’m so sorry.”

“What for?”

Yuta gestures vaguely around them. “That she had to go so soon. That she left you behind. That you had to deal with all of this on your own.”

Doyoung sighs and lowers himself to the floor, so he’s sitting right in front of Yuta. The bedroom is adequately armed. The window locks are easy to open. The fall down is probably survivable if they can catch onto a ledge somehow. “It’s all in the past, Yuta. She died when I was ten years old. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It does, and you know it.” There’s an edge in Yuta’s voice—a sharpness that pokes past the tender tone. “Please don’t lie to me, Doyoung. I saw how you reacted. She was your mother. It matters to you.” 

“Yuta, no offense, but even if it does matter to me, how does this matter to you?”

“I don’t want to see you so burdened by this,” Yuta says, reaching forward and taking Doyoung’s hand in his. “I know I don’t usually barge into your business, but something like this shouldn’t be shouldered by you alone.”

“Well, it’s my history, Yuta,” Doyoung mutters, looking at their interlaced fingers. “It had nothing to do with you.”

Yuta shakes his head, lips pulled into a taut smile. “Doyoung, baby, we’ve been married for years. Your heartache affects me more than you think it does. I just wish you’d trust me enough to share your burden with me, otherwise it’ll slowly kill you.”

Doyoung wants to protest, but Yuta’s giving him  _ that look _ . The one that says, ‘I won’t take no as an answer, even if you kill me.’ And Doyoung knows how things go when he tries to fight  _ that look _ . Sleeping alone might’ve been nice once upon a time, but now the emptiness is just the prelude to a night of insomnia and the horrible, crawling fear that he’s fucked up for real, and Yuta doesn’t love him anymore. 

He knows he’ll always be proven wrong each morning after, but that doesn’t stop the gnawing inside him until Yuta returns to the bed and is sleeping soundly by his side.

“I trust you,” Doyoung finally says, gently tracing the veins on the back of Yuta’s hand with his thumb. “But I don’t know if you can really understand. I don’t like talking about this.”

“Take your time, handsome,” Yuta says as he scoots closer. “And you don’t have to tell me everything all at once. I’m just here to listen.”

The memories hurt, but Doyoung bites back the dull pain. If he doesn’t talk now, he might never speak of this again. It’ll just be him and the memories, shouldering the weight of it all alone, and Yuta standing by with his big, broken heart in his hands. 

“My mother,” Doyoung begins, “she was a brilliant woman, but not the best mom, you know?”

Yuta hums. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, she was always kind to me, and took care of me when she had the time, but she never really had the time,” Doyoung says. “She was always out for work. After I turned eight, I saw her maybe once, twice every other month or so."

“So she just left you to live at home by yourself?”

“No, I lived with other young trainees at the agency dorm. My mother tried her best given what she had, but I was mostly on my own growing up. When she visited, she taught me things, and her influence helped me build my career.” Doyoung pauses and takes a breath. “I guess that’s how she thought she could express her love the best way. If she couldn’t be there to protect me, she’ll teach me to protect myself.”

Yuta smiles. “Well, looks like it worked quite well.”

“Guess so.” Doyoung gives Yuta’s hand a squeeze. “Losing her...it was hard. I felt like I never really knew her, but I was ten, Yuta. She was the only real parent I had.”

“Your father?”

“Never knew him. Mother didn’t talk about him when I was growing up. The closest thing to a father figure I had was my mentor.”

“You still talk to him?”

“Can’t. He dropped completely off the radar after he retired. I don’t even know if he’s alive anymore.”

Yuta’s face crumples like wet paper, and Doyoung feels the sadness inside himself. “You’ve been through a lot.”

“Yeah, but you already knew that.”

“Not to this extent.”

“No,” Doyoung agrees, before pushing himself up and dragging Yuta with him. “But you do now.”

“Have you ever told anyone else about this?”

“No, but I’m pretty sure Taeyong and Kun knows some parts of it, since they lived through that phase with me.”

Yuta smiles, and pulls Doyoung into a hug. “I won’t tell anyone, I promise you. And when you’re ready to share more, or have anything you think is too heavy to carry alone, I’ll always be here to carry it with you.”

“Yuta,” Doyoung murmurs into his husband’s ear. “This attitude of yours is what will get you killed in the field.”

“They’ll have to be good enough to get to me to begin with,” Yuta shoots back, pressing a kiss to Doyoung’s jugular. “And if I do die, I’ll at least go knowing you’re safe.”

Doyoung grabs Yuta’s shirt and pulls him closer so he can kiss him. “You’re bold if you think I’d let them even get that far,” he murmurs against Yuta’s lips as his fingers begin to undo his husband’s shirt, then trails down to his half-done belt. “They’ll have to try very, very hard.”

* * *

It’s not easy for Doyoung to understand love.

He’s not super expressive like Yuta or shameless like Taeyong. He doesn’t know how to shop like Johnny or flirt like Jaemin. His expression is a resting bitch face more often than not and his skills in bed are mediocre,  _ at best _ .

Hell, it took him over an entire year to sort out his feelings enough to even get to that last part.

But for whatever odd reason, Yuta still loves him like he’s the saint of the world, even though he himself emerged from the shadows of the Underworld and Doyoung’s stained red up to his neck.

Neither of them are “good” people. They’re both going to hell after they die. It’s just a matter of  _ when _ .

Doyoung wonders how much longer he can embrace his husband like this. How many more nights they’ll have to themselves. How many days it’ll be before one or both of their lives are in serious danger.

Come what may, Doyoung’s ready to face it. He’s got a game plan, mapped out several escape routes, and is armed to the teeth.

_ ‘Escape is always the first option. Killing is the last resort. There is no in-between.’ _

Doyoung is a man of few worldly possessions, and his prize possession, resting warm and heavy above him, is something he’ll skip the first step for, no questions asked.

“Baby,” Yuta murmurs, pressing a kiss to Doyoung’s forehead as he shifts and Doyoung feels a familiar pleasure shoot up his spine. “Focus.”

“I’m sorry,” Doyoung whispers, leaning up to kiss the corner of Yuta’s lips. “I’m overthinking again.”

“We had an agreement, handsome,” Yuta says, bringing up a hand to brush back the damp hair away from Doyoung’s forehead. “Bringing work home is fine, but not in the bed.”

“Right. You’re right.” Doyoung reaches up and wraps his arms around Yuta’s shoulders, trailing his fingers over the ink spanning the delicate skin and massaging the tense muscles behind Yuta’s neck. “But worrying about you is a full-time job.”

Yuta chuckles, low and sounding more like a scoff. “Worry when the time comes, handsome. I don’t want you stressing that pretty head of yours right now.”

“I have a gun under the bed,” Doyoung confesses.

“Is it loaded?”

“Fully.”

“Safety on?”

“I think so.”

Yuta laughs again. “Imagine all those shady bastards hunting us down and this is the way we actually die. What a way to go.”

Doyoung feels a smile curve over his lips, and is delighted when it feels relaxed enough to be genuine. Yuta leans down to kiss him again, and Doyoung meets him halfway. His touch is light against Doyoung’s bare skin, his kisses sweet, and his lovemaking a tender, muted ecstasy that knocks all the air from Doyoung’s lungs.

Yuta holds him that night, like how he always does—arm around Doyoung’s waist, and pressed close enough to kiss the shell of Doyoung’s ear.

Doyoung holds him back the only way he knows how—a hand pressed gently over Yuta’s forearm, light enough to be comfortable, but firm enough to pull him closer.

He wonders then, that had he and Yuta met under different circumstances, would they still love each other the same? Would Yuta hold him like a crystal flower that’ll break at the slightest touch? Would Doyoung burn down the world just to keep him safe? 

Doyoung is an orphaned killing machine. Yuta is a black-shrouded thief with a heart of gold. Doyoung almost killed Yuta when they first met. Yuta loves him, anyways. Doyoung throws up at the smell of ground beef. Yuta loves Korean ground beef and rice bowls. 

It doesn’t make any sense, how they ended up together.

But, Doyoung guesses, having people hunt them down on a 30-year-old grudge doesn’t make much sense, either.

**Author's Note:**

> Let's roll :))
> 
> Thanks for reading!! Comments and kudos are always appreciated!!
> 
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